Subtle Desire
by Akkiko
Summary: Pre-ToA. The events that shaped Sync the Tempest before he became a God General.


**Author's notes: **... where the heck did this come from? X.x

**Title: **Subtle Desire

**Summary: **Sync's pre-story before ToA. ... it... kinda makes sense?

**Warnings: **... language? I don't think I have anything to put here for once. o.O

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any recognizable characters or Tales of the Abyss. I write with the sole intent to entertain and gain no profit from this.

--

It's dusty in this room. Dark too. Laying there on his side, hands bound behind his back, ankles tied and mouth gagged, there's nothing but confusion in his eyes. Confusion and hatred. He doesn't have those words yet, but he's learning and fast. The people who come to feed them stink of something acrid, he'll soon learn to associate this smell with fear. It's sweat and terror, they know they're going to die, but as long as he and the others in this black pit are alive, they'll live too. They talk in ushered tones, not that it matters. Nobody in this room but they can understand what they speak. It's a strange set of garbled noises that seem to make sense, more than his own, so he listens, watches their gestures and feels the meaning of their words, hoping to make sense of it.

These people who have language come four times a day. Each visit entails a washroom break. Here their ankle binds are removed, but they are escorted with rough and uncaring arms and are cleaned like infants, incapable of the task themselves. Yet it's true, because they cannot do it themselves. In the afternoon on their second visit, they bring food. Gags are removed and they are fed with their hands and ankles bound. Some of the stupider ones choke because the speakers are too careless with the food. He never chokes.

The third visit is at dusk, every second day at this time they are fed again, then washed and cleaned. It's a nice thought, if he knew they didn't do it for themselves. Knew that they wrinkle their nose every time they step inside this room, he wishes he could tell them that he thinks they stink too.

The final visit is before lights out, the speakers check their ropes, make sure nothing has gone amiss, then leave and turn the lights in the room off. This is the worst time. He knows he needs rest, his eyes grow heavy and his mind and body drift, but that's a long time coming. Right now it's dark and everything else is magnified. He can hear all of them. These people who are bound and gagged like him, treated like him, _look_ like him. One is hysterical in the dark, he sobs and cries and wails himself to sleep, struggling futilely against the ropes. He's been here for as long he can remember. There were four others besides him when he "woke up" and they were already in this state.

Another sits there like the dead. Doesn't think. Doesn't speak, his eyes are empty. He really hopes he's not going end up like that. He can't bare to think that way. He wants to learn how to speak, to understand what is going on, to find out _who_ he is. The other two look confused, incomprehensive, he meets their eyes once and they simply stare at him before he has to look away. There's something in that look, something… peaceful. It annoys him.

Days pass, but he can't tell in this room. Then, one day the door opens, and another look-a-like is brought it. He looks up with interest gleaming in his eyes as they set him down on the ground, tie him up in the same fashion as the others and leave without a word. After they do, he sits up a little from his position on the ground and looks at the newcomer. Those eyes are dull, uncomprehending, slow to start. Hours pass, those eyes begin to fill. Questions start forming in that look as he shifts, curious at how he came to be that way.

_Finally_, he thinks. Now he's not alone anymore, but watching the newcomer promptly go to sleep, he corrects himself. _I might just be fooling myself._ It's not so much as words formed in his head, so much as the feeling of them. Sarcasm, he'll learn what he's exercising is called sarcasm.

The days go on, routine never ends. He listens to the speakers as they care for them and learns a little, he can even form broken sentences now that half make sense. What intrigues him the most though, is when the crying one hurts himself, and the speaker tends to him. He says words, words that flow from her mouth in song. A glyph appears, his wound vanishes. That sets his mind reeling, what did she do? Can he do it too? His eyes gleam with untold interest.

The days to follow fill his mind with an endless stream of thought. Coherency is taking place in his mind, and though he can't voice his thoughts, he is plenty able to think. He concludes he can do what that woman did, why else would they be bound and gagged so? To keep them from hurting themselves? Perhaps, but he hardly thinks if they're being treated so that whomever is in charge of them cares less if they fight and scrap with their bare hands. So he comes to the realization that he can cast spells.

This realization comes too late. Another day comes and the speakers walk in, but unfamiliar faces come with them.

"Round them up, we don't need these failures anymore." The voice is rough, commanding, so unlike the voices he's used to that he's stunned for a moment, before he realizes he's being picked up and tied up in a sack. His struggles are nothing, he's weak and malnourished. He has no strength.

It's dark, and bumpy. Wherever they're taking them, it's a rough trip and he's bruised and aching by the end of it. He hears noises and talking, but it's muffled, he can't make sense. All he knows is that it's getting hotter and hotter inside this bag, for a moment he almost thinks it's him causing that, but no. He can hear great roars now, splashes of something great hitting something greater. He doesn't understand.

Then the sack is untied and his eyes wince at the bright lights suddenly assaulting his senses, but he doesn't close his eyes. He sees red, and moving earth, and vibrant colors. It's like experiencing life for the first time. As he's pulled from the sack, his gag gets caught on the gauntlet covered hands carrying him and the knight tears it away with impatience, eager to be done with this dirty task. He doesn't understand what's going on as he dragged to the precipice. Then, he gets a glimpse over the edge, sees the pool of shifting red rock and the rush of heat that swirls up around his face.

His eyes spot four dark spots below, and he blinks. Confused. Why four only on this otherwise unmarred patch of lava?

It clicks. He screams, that acrid smell's in the air again, but this time it's him. He fights, he kicks with whatever strength he has, he tried and tries and tries but there's nothing for it, he gets tossed.

Sailing through the air, heat clawing up at him, his hands break loose of the ropes, the binds having been frayed in the struggle. All he knows is this.

_I want to live!_

And he screams again, but this time something happens. Glyphs appear, a great rumbling noise sounds and suddenly sharp slabs of rock shoot from the side of the cliff. The waiting pool of death beneath him vanishes as he slams into hard rock and tumbles to the base where the jutting out rock meets the cliff. He breathes hard, curses in his own guttural way at the pain and makes sure he's safe before angrily tearing away the threads on his ankles. Another voice, another sound of whooshing air. He looks up and sees another body plummeting forward.

Another body which lands on the rock slab he made and comes rolling down the slant, nearly crushing him. He shifts quickly and watches as it hits the wall, making a pained noise before straightening. It's the curious one. It looks around, sniffles and creeps closer to him. He frowns but lets it. This one at least had a little more intelligence than the others. As the curious one clings to him, he wonders what to do now. They can't stay here, he knows that. He glances up and wonders how far the climb would be. If he tried casting another spell, would it weaken their support? He's not interested in dying.

Taking the curious one's hand, he gets to his feet and spots a sort of path on the other side. If they made it to there, they'd live. He's sure of it. Pointing at the path, he hopes he won't have to explain it twice, he'll be really pissed if he does. But a simple point at the path and the curious one nods. He gets it. They walk up the rock to the very edge, it's a long way across, and a long drop down. Frowning, he points to the other side again where there's a ledge, then takes a few steps back, before running forward. His leap sends him soaring above the lava pool, a burst of hot air catches him and sends him spinning to the other side, landing him in safety. Sitting there on the rock now, he looks across at the curious one who is dubious, and definitely frightened.

He urges him with hand motions, and finally the other one backs up a little, before taking a running leap.

He knows, just knows even before he watches the curious one leap, that he won't make it. He shoots to his feet, remembers the heat blast, and wonders of he can replicate it.

He has to try. He doesn't want that one to die either. The glyphs appear again. He's cast something and a wellspring of air swirls around the curious one as he begins to fall, terribly short of the ledge.

The air shoots up, sending him flying high and right into him. They crash together and he lays there, stunned. He'll soon learn what he's feeling is called pain and that what he just did is a spell called "Turbulence."

They're safe for now though, after some well deserved admonishing, he takes the curious one's hand again and they walk up the cliff together. Only to find a man at the top with more of those guards. It doesn't take a genius to read the hostility in their stances. He doesn't bother to guess why the strange man looks curious more than angry.

As they rush forward with angry yells, all he knows is that he will not die. He's come so far. He refuses to give up, he _can not_ give up. As they come forward, he feels that energy inside of him that he's come to know so well, only twice he's used it but it already feels like a part of him. He pushes the curious one away a little so he won't get hurt and thinks. Two words come to mind. One reminds him of these strange little tin men.

(1) A speaker had a stone before, the colors matched the metal plates of these men. They are stupid and slow too, like rocks but not mighty like the mountain which saved him and the other. He recalls the word the woman called the stone, but he cannot remember clearly. The other is simple. He likes it, it sounds angry, painful, full of hurt and suffering.

As he swells up as much power as he can into his hand, familiar channels in his body open to allow the energy to flow through. He knows then, that somehow, he's done this before.

Then he slams his hand into the earth and screams those two words. The two words that says: he wants these men to _suffer_.

"_Akashic torment!"_

_-  
_

* * *

-

It's been two weeks since then. Through a series of words and hand gestures, he's made a pact with this man called Van. The one who says he needs his power aiding him in his quest.

He's learned much in this past while, many words, many meanings, many sounds and many spells. He's learned all this to live and to protect. So long as they promise not to kill the curious one, he'll fight. It's an added bonus, he really not longer cares for the clone, or so he tells himself. He walks around with a mask now, but he is still nameless.

"Sync." He says one morning.

"Excuse me?" Van quips, raising an eyebrow.

"It'll be my name. Sync the Tempest, a gale of destruction." He's learned much from the library, the door to the place that would have been his death and instead became the place of his birth.

"Why Sync?" A deep voice asks. He looks to the speaker, a big man with a great deal of hair on his face. He doesn't mind this one.

"Probably chose the first thing he saw from the dictionary." A more cowardly voice comments. This one belongs to a male(?) who sits all day on a chair and does nothing but laugh in high tones. He hates this one.

"Synchronization. This empty world is bound to the score, and is therefore fated to absolute destruction. The only reason it still lives is because of the chaos which has disrupted their alignment. I will synchronize the two and destroy this worthless planet." The words are strong, bold, filled with hate. Van listens, and he smiles.

His explanation is accepted. A tempest of destruction and violence, leaving peace in its wake. He likes the poetry of it.

But Sync has lied. There is another meaning to synchronization. It is called harmony.

He wants to harmonize with this life he's been given, because he can't right now. He is so full of hatred, anger and rage at his existence that he wants nothing more than to end it now.

But for the curious one who looks at him as he teaches him to speak, he wants to learn how to make peace with this existence he is suffering.

So his name is not an ominous foreshadow of the havoc he is about to wreak. It is a silent wish of his to find a life he can live with.

Harmony, between him and this wretched world.

-

* * *

-

(1) In this story, the word Akashic is derived from the word Arkosic. Since Akashic doesn't actually have a solid definition, I took a similar sounding word which could easily confuse a new mind and used a child's method of connection between the stone and the Oracle Knights. Arkosic is a type of sandstone and while it comes in various colors, it does have one shade of light/creamy brown-white shading. Hence the connection by colors since Sync, as a child, wouldn't have much else to go on other than what he'd seen.

P.S: "The curious one" is obviously going to be known as Florian. XD


End file.
